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Prequel Page 1
The air feets humid, musky. Like a parasitic ghost, embracing her as she pushes through the Black Stag's oversized doors. Street-bustle gives way to groaning wood and brass, then on to muffled voices. Low upkeep, only the common denominators. Gliding a hand along the entrance foyer, she took note of the huge timbers, sanded and sheared in some absent-minded manner. Workmanship always seemed to be done from a strange place, the mind wandering to other things while the hands went about their motions. Into the commons. Arches, lofts, animal stuffings. People here, it seemed to her, were noticeably poor. Not beggars though. She waves off the greeting maid. Elk, maybe deer antlers haphazardly welded together by bands of iron. A dozen candles dripping hot wax, sitting in a forest of bone, high above. Bright colors, robes, savage markings. Westerners. Imperial grey, dark green, sober flair. She wondered how such a combination could possibly exist, but there it was right in front of her. Northfolk, a small band at a table to her right. Elegance, pale skin-tones, self-possessed. Southern. Much more of them than anyone else. They were all engaged in their conversations, thoughts or empty-headedness. Wanters. Wanting things, or wanting to sell things. Wanting to sell things to satisfy the want for other things. She took a big breath. This particular Inn blended smoothly with her experience of others frequented, nearly identical, both by looks and by inhabitants. Replace one wooden chair with another, one fat merchant with the next. She wrinkled her nose, but it did smell worse. A center for cultural warfare. Her opinion hardly needed questioning. Nothing worth noting at these gatherings beyond what one assumed the world to be. Men. Men of power and servitude. Woman of servitude and marriage. It had always been this way, as far back as she remembered. Always the spread of man. She slid past tables, booths, careful as not to overly disturb, acknowledging her own presence as courtesy. Nondescript, armed, but who wasn't? Nothing screamed militia, Dynasty, alignment. No one seemed to take a point to notice. Annoying, in a way, for her to blend in so successfully. Up to the bar-top, smiling, taking a seat next to the largest figure in the room, a towering behemoth of a man. Looks from people. Having claimed a seat amongst them, she felt eyes glaze, taking her in, sidelong glances. Shifting in seats, fidgets of concern. A big man laughs, parked in front of a giant plate of meat and potatoes, half eaten. Saliva pools in her mouth. Her stomach growls. Big man seems to not have noticed her. Motions a hand as furry as a squirrel's back. She leans back quickly, it nearly hits her. “Barkeep!” An short, fat, aproned man moves to the service of Hairy Hands. Young, with an unnaturally flattened nose. Local, probably. Hard to tell. He sports a frown. A woman behind him, in the kitchen looking overworked, blank. Definitely local. “Sir?” asks Flatnose. Hairyhands guzzles the last of his drink then slams it down. He makes a grunting noise, sliding the pitcher forward. Flatnose takes it away for a refill. Hairyhands stuffs more meat into his mouth, blood and grease dripping onto facial hair, braided and jeweled. She stares at his plate, hungrily. “Whatch' your name, girl?” It catches her of guard, Hairy Hands looks her up and down from bloodshot eyes hooded by a grotesquely overhanging brow. “Jane.” “Jane, eh,” She isn't too fond of his tone. “Aye, big man. And what's yours?” “Buren.” “Buren...” “Aye.” Flatnose returns with a pitcher of a strong smelling grog. Buren Hairy Hands takes it up enthusiastically and proceeds to drain the contents. “Its on me, big man.” Buren belched loudly, slamming down the pitcher. “And the next too, aye girl?” “Sure.” “Well then, what da you want.” The big man's eyes seem to clear for a moment, lucid. “Buren, I've heard of a small book shop here, a quiet place, out of the way-type.” She pauses, adjusts the leather strapping across her torso. “Would you know of such a place.” “Maybe.” A long look with Buren, his eyes glazing back over. “Barkeep, another pitcher for my friend here.” A moment later a fresh pitcher appears, Buren moving his attention from his diminishing plate to the drink. She plucks the bag of gold hanging from his belt. “Couple places like that.” “So I've seen.” The pitcher slams down, again drained. “You looking for one in particular?” “One minded by a hermit.” “Ain't they all?” Buren took a huge piece of meet and popped it into his giant, bearded maw. “Well, there's Neznarf's, Claudia's...” Chewing. “One run by the Pickens family. Heard they only got crude books, kind that'd make a thief squirm!” Hairyhands laugh cuts off abruptly. She watches in fascination as his face turns red. Panic. He smashes a gauntleted hand down that snaps right through the wooden counter. Staggering to his feet, eyes rolling, gagging silently. No one seems to notice. Buren collapses to his knees, head cracking on his overturned stool. She glances around the room, people laughing, pointing, or ignoring the scene entirely. Now, dry heaving on all fours, like a hacking dog. In a swift motion she draws her sword and swings it down onto his massive back, blade flat. A hunk of beef shoots out from Buren's mouth. The ring of steel and the smack of it on leather bring men to their feet. Silence reigns. She takes a peek at Buren's plate while he sucks in huge lungfuls of air. Casually she plucks a potato wedge and a slice of beef. “Thanks, Buren.” Flatnose leans over his freshly shattered bar-top, clearly unhappy to see Buren alive. She deftly produces a couple of gold coins, tossing them on the counter. Then she walks out into the warm night air, the gentle current sweeping away the ghosts of Black Stag Inn.